Harold Upstairs
The man in the apartment above mine is a time traveler. I’m sure of it. When he goes, there’s a sound like loose change falling from his pocket. I hear it roll across the floor, scattering. For days or weeks, there’s no noise at all until he comes barreling through space and time, screaming. I stand close to the vent to listen to his mumbling, but all I can hear is the loose change noise, rolling and clattering, as he tries to collect his thoughts.
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Tyrannosaurus Rex as Evolutionary Ideal
You had this thought often (daily) throughout the span of your entire life (thirty-one years, three months, six days): short arms ought to be accompanied by gnashing teeth (to do away with knife and fork), sharp toe-claws (to reach itchy places), thick skin (to avoid hurt feelings), a strong tail (to knock important items from high shelves), and a mighty roar (to ensure you are taken seriously by lesser lizards). You have had this thought often throughout the span of your entire stumpy-armed life: the argument is sound.
